Pittston Dispatch // PD Columnists // Haley Taffera - Haley's Comment

Sunday March 29, 2009 | 01:00 AM

Hi. My name is Haley, and I have road rage.

There. I said it. Let the 12-step healing begin.

Now, I’ll backtrack and explain.

I am ridiculously stressed. Between work, personal obligations, and house/apartment hunting, I’m pushing myself closer and closer to the mental and emotional brink.

I can’t even remember the last time I sat down and relaxed or took time for myself. I have been eating poorly and almost always on the run. I haven’t spoken to any of my friends and all but a few members of my family in almost three weeks. I have been getting frequent, almost daily, headaches and have found that sleeping does not erase my exhaustion. To the brink I tell you!

So, after a few days of running purely on adrenaline fumes, I declared, rather loudly to not only myself but also to those within a 30-yard radius of me that I was trying really hard to not punch anyone in the face. (Granted, battles of mine that include self-restraint are often times losing and pointless, but still, I try to show some sort of fight and gumption in me.)

Yeah, it’s been one, or a few actually, of those weeks. Human interaction at this point is a bad idea. I need some recovery time. Some “me” time. Some time to regain my wits and social skills. Or, some willing soul who is prepared to allow me to pummel them for a period of time. Any takers?

After declaring my Golden-Glove intentions, a colleague of mine shouted, “Me too! Thank goodness I’m not alone.” Oh no, my friend, you are certainly not alone. Misery loves company and I am a resident of Wallowing. Welcome, neighbor.

It’s kind of pathetic really, but just knowing someone else out there was feeling punchy too was the only talking down, the only drop of peace and serenity that I needed. It was strangely soothing to know that the world is full of twisted people who take delight in envisioning acting out a ninja butt whooping.

Anyhow, I was feeling much better about myself and far less inclined to throw any punches while on my commute home from work. I was radio channel surfing and, in the beginning, very pleased when I stumbled upon the song “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” by B.J. Thomas. The man, for the love of sweet Baby Jesus, was singing to me! The lyrics were a narrative of my life throughout the past few weeks.

“Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, But that doesn’t mean my eyes will still be turning red, Cryin’s not for me, ‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’, Because I’m free, nothin’s worryin’ me, It won’t be long til happiness steps up to greet me. ”

Ok, so it was a long shot. Here I was, stopped at a red light in my Focus, jammin’ out to B.J. Thomas, and trying like hell to hold on tight to that feeling of serenity. Sure, the trumpets and upbeat message of the song are catchy, but before I knew it, I was yet again sad, angry, exhausted, and experiencing an all-out temper tantrum right there in my car.

I suppose the silver lining of that situation is that my temper tantrum was climate controlled. I could not in fact punch anyone in the face because I was alone in my car. There were no other cars behind me or in front of me at the red light, and therefore, no one for me to step outside of my car, kindly ask to roll down their window, and sneak attack with fists-a-flyin’. I was cursing solely to my dash board and physically assaulting only my steering wheel.

I was suddenly feeling obligated to shove those raindrops so far up B.J. Thomas’s you-know-what that he would … well … very bad things. I was back to envisioning very bad things, boys and girls.

And then, that’s when the light turned green.

Now, my good friend Dana and my beau are two of the only people that I find myself fearing to step into a car with. I enjoy my life most days and truly treasure the opportunity of living it. With them, my safety is most always in jeopardy and I feel as though I am reenacting NASCAR. Upon stepping into my beau’s vehicle, I tend to refer to him as Mario Andretti or Evel Knievel, especially when traveling along Interstate 81.

Well, I guess that’s where I learned my road rage moves. Before any sort of common sense could filter through, I was hurling insults at my fellow commuters that would make a sailor blush. The only real weapon that I had, and that I used like it was going out of style, was my middle finger and my trusty horn.

I know, I know. Not my finest moment. Road rage is a useless emotion, much like Ben and Jerry’s guilt, and shoe buyer’s remorse, but I participated. I participated all over Wyoming Avenue.

Most of the road rage episode is, thankfully, a blur to me now, but I do remember at one point pressing the gas pedal all the way down until it couldn’t go any further. My little Focus was like to engine that could, trying so hard to keep pace with my madness and desire to go faster and leave all those horrible drives chocking on my gas fumes.

You wouldn’t be gasping for fresh air right now if you had MOVED OUT OF MY WAY like I screamed and motioned to you, you stupid Honda Accord! My sister’s PT Cruiser can go faster than that!

And I must remember to send flowers or a card to those pedestrians who idly thought that it might have been a good idea to consider crossing the street. I’M DRIVING HERE!

I took the turns like I was on rails and was bobbing and weaving between cars. I even think my wheels screeched once. Yes, I was feeling feisty and testy. I was a madwoman.

My name is Haley, and I have road rage. It’s been three days since my last episode. Like, I said, let the healing begin.